


The Mysterious Case Of The Stolen Money (Sherlock/John, N C-17)

by buttsnax



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Slash, d-lznt-class rigid-framed airship, gay blimp disaster, hindenburg, m/m - Freeform, put it in my butt because i am a gay man and i like that, vaginas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 05:58:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttsnax/pseuds/buttsnax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John didn't know much about doors, but he did have a lot of experience with holes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mysterious Case Of The Stolen Money (Sherlock/John, N C-17)

It was a gay day. The sun shone brightly on downtown London as Sherlock got out of the taxi in front of the bank. He climbed the steps up toward the impressive stone facade, noting small details like the extra security detachment, a suspicious stain on the far right stair step, and John, making out with a gay man near the doorway.  
  
“Ahem,” Sherlock cleared his throat.  
  
“Oh sorry,” said John, pushing the other man away. “I was just being gay. I hope that doesn’t bother you too much.”  
  
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Sherlock, who was also gay. “I am also gay!”  
  
“Of course,” said John. “How could I forget, being as we are two gay men who live together?”  
  
The man who had been making out with John was staring at them with a puzzled look. They ignored him.  
  
“So,” said Sherlock as he and John walked toward the bank entrance, “What’s going on here?”  
  
“Well,” replied John, “I guess someone stole some money. Honestly, I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention.”  
  
“Hello,” said the man in the background. “I’m still here! Also, my name is Todd!”  
  
Sherlock and John continued to ignore him.  
  
“I think it was something to do with the millions of pounds being stolen from the vault,” John continued. “No alarms tripped, nothing out of place. Except the actual money. That _is_ out of place.”  
  
“How fascinating,” said Sherlock.  
  
“Call me!” yelled Todd at John. No one cared.  
  
Sherlock and John walked around looking at things, deductively. John immediately noticed that there were not very many people in the bank. Though there was no sign posted outside, there were no customers; the only people in the bank appeared to be security guards and staff. The staff looked quite worried.  
  
Sherlock, by contrast, noticed that there was water damage on the upper wall near the stairwell, and suspected an internal leak. He also noticed that the edges of the carpet were frayed and slightly worn in a trademark pattern suggesting an infestation of _tineola bisselliella_ , the common clothes moth. Neither of these things were particularly useful.  
  
“Would you . . . like to see the vault where they broke in?” asked one of the guards, who appeared puzzled that Sherlock was examining the carpet.  
  
“Would you like to have gay sex with me right now in the closest bathroom we can find?” Sherlock asked the guard hopefully.  
  
“No,” said the guard, his expression of bemusement changing to one significantly less bemused.  
  
“Ah well,” sighed Sherlock, disappointed. “Yes. The vault.”  
  
John walked over to them and nodded hello. The guard nodded back, guardedly.  
  
“Right this way, gentlemen,” the guard said, motioning toward a long corridor that had been covered in a yellow spiderweb of caution tape.  
  
Sherlock ran his finger across one of the ribbons of plastic that read “DANGER: CRIME SCENE” in block letters. Beyond that, he could see the vault door, which had clearly enjoyed better days.  
  
“Ah yes,” Sherlock said. “I deduced that this is where we would discover the scene of the crime.” He held up three fingers. “Firstly, because the lettering on this tape seems to indicate that-”  
  
“Wait!” cried out a bank teller, who came running to them from the front of the bank. “I heard there was an offer for gay sex with a handsome investigator!”  
  
“Dibs!” yelled Sherlock.  
  
“Fuck,” John cursed under his breath.  
  
Sherlock examined the teller with a critical eye. He looked to be male, which fulfilled about 97.5 percent of his sexual requirements. “I am going to hit that so hard OSHA is going to bring a class action lawsuit on my dick,” he whispered to himself.  
  
“Pig,” mumbled John.  
  
“It’s alright, dear ol’ chum,” said Sherlock, patting John on the back. “Someone needs to have a good look at the vault! Besides, maybe you’ll have better luck with that stodgy guard fellow than I did!”  
  
Sherlock winked at the guard.  
  
“Nope,” said the guard. “Not happening.”  
  
“So then,” Sherlock began as he linked arms with the gay teller, “Where’s the nearest public lavatory?”  
  
As Sherlock and the teller wandered off, giggling, John sighed and shook his head. The guard rolled his eyes and pointed down the hall.  
  
“Anyway,” the guard said, “the vault’s down there. You can tell because of the giant fucking door with the giant fucking hole in it.”  
  
John deduced that the guard was annoyed. Still, the opportunity for sex remained.  
  
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance that-” John began to ask, but was abruptly cut off.  
  
“Absolutely not,” said the guard, crossing his arms.  
  
It was clear to John that he would get none here. He sighed once more, and walked toward the vault.  
  
It was indeed a big door, with a very big hole in it.  
  
“Yes,” he said to himself. “That is one big hole.”  
  
“Fucking right,” said the guard. “Them ladies blasted a hole right through the vault door. Don’t know what they used but they sure meant business.” He paused and shook his head. “Never seen anything like it. That door is fourteen layers of solid steel and they blew a fucking hole in it large enough to fly the goddamn Goodyear blimp through it.”  
  
“I find that very unlikely,” said John absently. “The Goodyear blimp has a diameter of fifty feet--though the height is actually closer to sixty feet due to its slightly oblong nature. And that’s not even taking into account the rather obvious additional height imparted by the crew compartment.”  
  
“Not to mention,” John continued, “the total length of the blimp itself is just shy of two-hundred feet; it would scarcely even fit inside the vault!”  
  
“You know what . . . nevermind,” said the guard, giving up. He remained silent as John examined the crime scene.  
  
John didn’t know much about doors, but he did have a lot of experience with holes. The vault itself was less impressive than it could have been; all the safe deposit boxes were smashed open and rubble littered the room. The door itself was surrounded by twisted scraps of metal debris. The internal mechanism to the vault’s lock had been blasted out and lay scattered about the room, some pieces still smoldering.  
  
A bright patch of color caught John’s eye. “Ah ha!” he whispered to himself, bending down to examine it more closely. A small scrap of pink fabric was stuck to the jagged edges of the door. John carefully extricated it from the sharp metal edges where it had snagged using a pair of forceps. He _is_ a doctor, you know. He has those sort of things.  
  
He wandered over to the outside of the vault again and examined the scrap under the brighter light of the exterior corridor. A long blonde hair clung to the side of the fabric, and there was a small red-brown stain near the edge. “Gotcha,” thought John.  
  
He waited around until Sherlock returned, eager to show off his newfound clue. It was only a few moments until he saw Sherlock turn the corner, re-adjusting his scarf. His hair was in more disarray than usual from the gay sex.  
  
“Ah!” Sherlock said immediately upon seeing John. “I see you have found a clue.”  
  
“Yes,” said John, his eyes narrowing and his voice taking on a snarky tone. “While other people were, shall we say, _screwing around,_ I did manage to turn something up.”  
  
“Don’t be like that,” said Sherlock. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”  
  
The gay teller came around the corner now, scrambling after Sherlock.  
  
“Hey, so, um, could I maybe call you sometime?” The teller stammered out.  
  
Sherlock winced, and turned toward the gay teller “Ralph-”  
  
“It’s Ted,” said Dave. Ralph. Dave.  
  
“I apologize,” said Sherlock. “I sleep with so many men I am easily confused who is who.”  
  
John rolled his eyes.  
  
“Look Ral-Dave,” Sherlock said, correcting himself. “I’m not really looking for what you might call a 'repeat' sort of thing.”  
  
John laughed.  
  
“Oh, tell me about it,” he butted in. “If either of us were looking for a relationship, we’d just have gay sex with each other! Hell, we could do it all night if we wanted to!”  
  
Sherlock began laughing as well, as the idea was clearly ridiculous.  
  
Dave (or was it Ralph?) looked at them and shook his head. He turned away and walked down the corridor again.  
  
“Imagine!” cried Sherlock, giggling furiously. “Have gay sex with each other just because we’re both gay and live together and are insatiable sex maniacs! How fantastic! However did you come up with that idea?”  
  
“I have no idea,” said John between spurts of laughter.  
  
From the end of the corridor, Ralph gave Sherlock one last hopeful look and mimed a telephone held up to his mouth with his hand. Sherlock didn’t notice.  
  
“Oh right,” said Sherlock, composing himself. “The clue.”  
  
“Yes,” said John, proffering the scrap of fabric. “This can only mean one thing.”  
  
He locked eyes with Sherlock.  
  
“Drag queens!” They both exclaimed in unison.  
  
“We’ll have to stake out the local gay clubs,” said Sherlock, matter-of-fact.  
  
“Yes,” agreed John. “I was thinking The Manhole?”  
  
“Hmm, no,” countered Sherlock. “The Gilded Phallus has two-for-one drinks on Tuesdays.”  
  
“Ah, good thinking!” agreed John.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” said the security guard, who had been standing there the entire time. “ _I_ need a drink.”

***

The warmth of the sun had long since faded by the time Sherlock and John reached the end of the line for admittance into to the Gilded Phallus. The deep bass beats of house music resonated off the brick walls of the alley and both investigators were eager to finally get in.  
  
“You two are a cute-looking couple,” said the doorman as they moved up to him. “You, ah, ever have room in your bed for a third?” His shirt was too tight, and Sherlock instantly noticed the diamond stud in his right ear was fake.  
  
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, my friend,” said Sherlock, slightly offended.  
  
“No way,” the doorman laughed, unhooking the velvet rope that was barring the door. “There is absolutely no way you two fellas are straight.”  
  
“Oh, no, certainly not,” said John. “I will literally fuck _anything_ with a penis. You are correct on that count one-hundred percent.”  
  
“Gay gay gay,” said Sherlock, nodding in assent.  
  
“We’re just not together,” continued John. “That would be weird.”  
  
“Oh,” said the doorman, opening the door for them. “I just thought that, you being two gay men going to a gay club together, whom I also incidentally saw holding hands in the line, might be a couple. But I guess not.”  
  
John and Sherlock nodded, holding hands.  
  
“Go on in,” the doorman said. “I wish you luck finding men to have sex with, other than each other.”  
  
“Thanks!” said Sherlock, crossing the threshold into the club. “We will!”  
  
After they had entered, John took Sherlock aside.  
  
“Hey,” he began, with a slight head tilt gesturing toward the door they had just come in through. “Do you think I have a shot with the doorman?”  
  
“Oh yeah,” said Sherlock, who had noticed the telltale signs of an increased heart rate and nervous fidgeting when the doorman had laid eyes on them. “If you’re into that beefy sort of chap, you should go for it.”  
  
John’s eyes closed in anticipation. John was rarely able to match the sheer quantity of Sherlock’s amorous adventures, and had been feeling a bit put out over the whole bank teller incident.  
  
“I am going to hit that,” said John, looking at the doorman. “I am going to hit that so hard the impact will kill twenty-seven bystanders. We will literally explode . . .  like a giant gay Hindenburg. It will be the great gay blimp disaster of our generation.”  
  
John had no warning. Sherlock’s hand came up with lightning speed and in the blink of an eye John felt his head snap backward as the shock of the impact against his cheek made him stagger.  
  
“What the _fuck,_ John,” yelled Sherlock. “What the fuck was that? You should _know_ better by now-!”  
  
“Oh . . . oh my god,” mumbled John, still reeling. “Forgive me, I . . . I was momentarily distracted.”  
  
“The Hindenburg!” raved Sherlock. “The Hindenburg was a Zeppelin! The Hindenburg was a Dirigible! The Hindenburg was-”  
  
“. . . a rigid framed airship, which categorically precluded it from being a blimp,” continued John, massaging the side of his face. He could still feel the well-deserved sting where Sherlock had struck him. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking up remorsefully. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”  
  
Sherlock’s glare softened. He put his hand on John’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, John. Perhaps I reacted too harshly.”  
  
“No,” replied John, patting Sherlock’s hand. “You were justified. Thank you for reminding me.”  
  
Sherlock smiled, then clapped John on the back. “Everyone makes mistakes,” he said. “Now go get laid!”  
  
John smiled and slipped back out the door. Several seconds later Sherlock spied him ushering the doorman to a secluded corner. Sherlock smiled, and headed into the throng of hot young men gyrating wildly on the dance floor.  
  
“Excuse me!” he yelled at the first man he saw. “I am gay and I would like to have sex with--oh, excuse me for one moment.” He paused to answer his phone. “Sherlock Holmes speaking.”  
  
“Jesus Christ Sherlock, are you in a gay club again?” barked the barely audible voice on the phone. It was Lestrade.  
  
“No,” lied Sherlock.  
  
“I can fucking hear the music, Sherlock. The song lyrics are _‘Put it in my butt because I am a gay man and I like that.’”_  
  
“Alright,” said Sherlock, giving up. “I may be in a gay club, but it’s part of my investigation.”  
  
“Sure it is,” Lestrade continued. “Just like the last time, when the Coldstreet killer was on the loose and you deduced he was hiding out in a gay club from the footprints he left on poor old Mrs. Roberts' flower bed.”  
  
“I feel that my conclusions were logically valid,” said Sherlock, eyeing a man in a white tank top and cut-off shorts.  
  
“Bullshit. You just wanted--you know what, I don’t care. I do not fucking care, you fucking poof.”  
  
“That’s hate speech,” interjected Sherlock. “Completely inappropriate.” A passing man grabbed Sherlock’s crotch and winked at him. Sherlock was interested--because he was gay--but unfortunately was still on the phone. Things were awkward.  
  
“Listen,” said Lestrade, sighing. “There’s been another break in. The ladies have robbed First National over on 42nd. They’re literally moving in a straight bloody line down the city. If only we had some kind of fucking genius to figure out their nefarious pattern. A straight goddamn line, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock did not miss the sarcasm in Lestrade’s voice, but also did not care as he was mostly focused on the lean, muscular man grinding his crotch against Sherlock’s ass in time with the music.  
  
“I am not particularly . . .” said Sherlock, with complete honesty,  “. . . _good_ with straight things.”  
  
“Also, we got your analysis. Are you on the opium again? Drag queens? They left a note at every site. The entire gang is comprised of women. We’ve known this for weeks.”  
  
“Ugh,” muttered Sherlock. “Vaginas.”  
  
The man grinding up against him looked at him strangely and left.  
  
“Are you fucking listening to me?” said Lestrade’s voice through the phone. “They’re going to be at the Royal London bank in thirty minutes. Hello?”  
  
Sherlock was upset. He knew women existed in the day-to-day sense of things, but he wasn’t particularly happy about it. How dare they batter their way into his sheltered world of rampant sodomy and utterly clueless characterization? What nerve!  
  
“It’s alright,” Sherlock responded after a moment. “We’ve got this one.”  
  
“What the fuck does that mean, you useless-”  
  
Sherlock hung up and solemnly placed the phone in his pocket. It was time. He waited for six minutes and forty-five seconds--less than John’s average, but above the median time--for John to finish, and met him near the door.  
  
“John,” he said, his tone grave and expression serious. “The time has come. The time to face our fears. The time to be heroes and--Jesus, John, you’ve got some . . . stuff, right there on your face. No, other side. Okay, that’s most of it.”  
  
“Anyway,” Sherlock continued. “The bank robbers. They’re women. Actual women. Probably even with vaginas.”  
  
John recoiled.  
  
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “And we have to stop them. No, don’t say it. I know. But we have to. This time it falls on us and us alone.”  
  
It was dramatic and touching and completely untrue in basically every possible way. But it touched John. A lot of things touched John that night.  
  
“Are you . . . do you mean . . . are you going to . . .” stammered John. He always knew this day would come.  
  
“Yes,” said Sherlock, his face lighting up. He was no longer resigned to his fate. He embraced it. As the thumping beat of the club hit “ _My Ass Is A Hotel, But You Can Only Check In”_ played around him, Sherlock gave in to his true nature, transforming into a D-LZNT-class rigid-framed airship. He unfolded gracefully, blowing out the walls and ceiling of the club. A mass of gay men ran screaming from his sleek Zeppelin NT “Eureka” chassis.  
  
Sherlock pivoted around toward John, who stared in awe, uninjured by the blast.  
  
“John,” said Sherlock. “I’ve been waiting so long for this.”  
  
John reached out a hand and touched the taut polymer--or was it Dacron? He wasn’t familiar with the Zeppelin NT line and suddenly felt shame well up inside him, the skin of the Dirigible before him.  
  
Sherlock sensed his hesitation. “It’s okay, John. Some people don’t even consider the Zeppelin NT company to be true Zeppelins. But I’m still a semi-rigid airship. That’s all that matters.”  
  
“You mean . . .” began John, understanding dawning in his eyes, “Your internal support structure is augmented by pressurized gas that helps retain your shape?”  
  
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “But more importantly,” his voice became low, and choked with emotion. “More importantly . . . I want you inside  
me.”  
  
“Oh,” gasped John, hardly believing it could be true. “I’ve dreamed of this day.”  
  
He stepped across the threshold into Sherlock’s small crew space beneath the enormous gas bladder.  
  
“Are we going to stop the robberies now?” he asked Sherlock.  
  
“No,” said Sherlock. “I don’t give a bloody fuck about that. Let’s have gay airship sex.”  
  
Then they flew to the United States and got married because gay airship sex is legal there thanks to the slippery slope precedent of gay marriage. Thanks Obama.


End file.
